Harry Potter and the Gates of Lycoris
by CrimsonFlag
Summary: Post OotP. NO SLASH. A new prophecy is born that contains the only hope to defeat Voldemort. Harry must journey to the lands beyond the veil to stop Voldemort from gaining true immortality. Innocence will be lost, ideals will be compromised, and past hostilities will be set aside to forge new alliances as the second war begins in earnest.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing of this story, the setting and characters in the Harry Potter series all belongs to J.K. Rowling**

**Chapter 1: Veiled Dreams**

_The veil swayed lightly in the still air, its invitation clear on the chorus of incessant whispers that beckoned and called from beyond the archway._

_He moved as if in a trance. The voices seemed to grow louder as he advanced, drawing him forwards on invisible strings of emotion. It was a sort of yearning so powerful that it dominated his entire consciousness, guiding his body to descend slowly down the steep tiers of the amphitheatre into the stone pit below._

_Dim blue flameless lanterns adorned the walls, their pulsing lights throwing his shadow across the floor in a strangely eerie way that complemented the unnatural gloom of the atmosphere. The chamber was empty, devoid of any movement save his and that of the rippling veil, yet he paused apprehensively at the foot of the dais on which the archway stood, to glance around warily as if expecting ambush. Only after a moment of intense scrutiny of his surroundings did he finally leap up onto the dais, edging forward until he was standing directly facing the veil. _

"_Sirius," he called clearly through the fabric._

_For a moment nothing happened. The veil fluttered teasingly against the hem of his robes, the voices continued with their ceaseless chorus, and his heartbeat sped up with fear and anxiety. It was like the day that he had called into Sirius' mirror happening all over again, that shining moment of expectancy when he might or might not answer back, to cross the border between hope and disappointment, joy and despair — _

_Then the veil shimmered, changing from a deep opaque black to a shadowy gauze-like consistency. The fabric thinned to become translucent. Beyond the veil swirled a great cloud of billowing mist that seemed to dissipate under his desperate gaze, to reveal a familiar figure walking towards him as if emerging from a long tunnel._

_He felt his breath catch in his throat. A tingle ran down his spine from the intenseness of his elation and relief. _

"_I've missed you, Harry." Sirius whispered, coming closer to stand just behind the veil. He extended a hand to press lightly against the rippling dark material, as if hoping to touch his godson._

_He reached forward to press his own fingers against that of Sirius'. The familiar, wondrous warmth of living flesh pulsed clearly through the thin fabric of the veil, yet that small comfort could not stop the sorrow that clenched at his heart. "I missed you too."_

"_Then help me, Harry, and open the veil."_

_There was a strange sort of hunger on Sirius's face as the man spoke. He understood it for what it was, but the knowledge only served to aggravate his grief._

"_I can't," he said sadly, lingering over the warmth at his fingertips with a twinge of longing. "The dead cannot enter the world of the living. Not as you once were."_

_Sirius was silent for a moment, a slight frown creasing his brow, then tilted his head up and gave a noncommittal shrug. "Then come and join me. I'm tired of being trapped here alone."_

_Tears sprang to his eyes, yet he shuddered and stepped away, torn between love and fear and temptation and a sickening guilt in the pit of his stomach._

"_It's not my time to die," he said softly, almost pleading as he struggled to master the wild torrent of conflicting emotions. "The prophecy says that I have to kill him, to avenge your death, and all the others that fell in the war..."_

_He trailed of as he saw the abrupt change in Sirius' expression, the handsome features darkening with a terrible accusatory anger that hurt him more than any physical or psychological pain he had ever experienced._

"_Avenge my death?" Sirius gave a mocking laugh, and there was now a world of bitterness and frustration in his black eyes, blazing out upon the living world with a fire-like intensity that screamed hatred at life's injustice. "But whose foolishness was it that led me to it? Who is my killer?"_

_Then Sirius' voice dropped, almost to a hiss, and the quiet resentment it carried chilled him to the soul._

"_It wasn't my time to die either, Harry."_

"_I'm sorry," he whispered. It was all that he could say._

_The fire in Sirius' eyes seemed to flare in brilliance. The red tongues of flame expanded to fill the entire iris, melting and remoulding the facial features like hot wax, until his scar burned from the heat and he suddenly found himself beholding the demented face of Voldemort, which leered at him from behind the veil._

"_You have blood on your hands, Harry," the Dark Lord hissed cruelly, tearing the veil easily aside to advance towards him. "We are truly equals now…"_

_He looked down at his hands, and saw that they were indeed covered in dripping blood._

* * *

Harry woke in bed with a start, the fading echoes of a muffled cry still raw in his throat. For a moment he simply lay there, frozen in fear and confusion, heartbeat racing from the adrenaline of his latest nightmare, raking his eyes wildly around the dark room as if expecting Voldemort himself to be lurking in a shadowy corner.

But the summer night on Privet Drive was peaceful. Light from outside streetlamps streamed in through the open window to bathe the room in a pale orange glow, dimly illuminating outlines of familiar furniture. There was nary a breath of wind to stir the warm air, the quiet tranquility broken only by the faint song of cicadas in the trees or the occasional motor of a passing car, and eventually Harry found himself beginning to relax. He loosened the tight wrapping of hot blankets from around his body and reached up to wipe the clamminess from his forehead, letting out a rather foolish sigh of relief as he saw that his hand was clean and pale and absent of any trace of blood.

Inwardly Harry scoffed at himself for the silliness of that action. Nightmares about the veil and Voldemort were now such common episodes that they had long since ceased to rattle him. Night after night he found himself back in the Death Chamber at the Department of Mysteries, to be drawn towards the veiled archway by inexplicable feelings of longing and curiosity. More often than not he could not reach it – Voldemort would be there to intercept him at the foot of the dais, red eyes gleaming like twin pools of blood, thin lips drawn back in a horrid laugh as his huge snake lunged over his shoulders to bury its venomous fangs in Harry's throat and send him jerking into wakefulness.

There were better variations, though, of the dreams as well. There were occasions, just like the last, when Voldemort would appear at a later time in his dream or not at all, which would allow him to approach the archway without any hindrance. Then he would stand before it and call out hopefully for his godfather. Most of the time his appeal went unanswered, to leave him facing the veil alone and despairing, but on a few lucky nights Sirius would appear and they would be able to talk for a little before light from the rising sun forces him back to reality. The meetings were often ones of joyful reunion, and Harry cherished those above all else: the opportunity to see his godfather again and hear his familiar voice and to speak all that they never had a chance to say during their short time together in life. But by some abhorrent trick of the mind, incidents similar to his latest dream had occurred twice before, which in Harry's opinion are far worse than any nightmare involving Voldemort and his pet snake.

Harry winced as he remembered Sirius' accusing glare, but he quickly pushed the image away and swung himself out of bed, firmly refusing to brood further upon the recollection. What had occurred in his dream was a manifestation of his own guilt, nothing more. The Sirius he knew would never say things like that. Sirius had cared for him, had willingly stepped into danger to ensure Harry's safety, and while no excuse could be made for his responsibility in Sirius' death, it was the least that he could do to not let petty guilt belittle his godfather's memory.

The alarm clock on his bedside table read ten past five. He quietly made his way to the bathroom for a quick wash before Dudley could wake up and hog it, returning just in time to hear a rapid flapping of wings as the owl who delivered the Daily Prophet swooped in to drop his copy onto the desk.

Harry paid the owl, flicking on the light switch as he went, then picked up the newspaper and flipped through it randomly. Evidently a new Minister of Magic had finally been elected after a month-long round of electoral speeches, political negotiations and parliament councils, as today's bold headline read: "SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE" above a large black-and-white picture of a man with a lionlike mane of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The picture was moving — the man was waving at the ceiling. (1)

Mildly curious about the background of the new minister, Harry read on a little of the main text:

_Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the Wizarding community, though rumours of a rift between the new Minister and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office._

_Scrimgeour's representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page 3, column 2)_ (2)

He did not bother to search the pages for the continuation. It stands to reason that the wizarding community would choose the former Head of the Auror office for leadership now that everyone realized war was truly starting; he probably has the most experience resisting Voldemort, know the best defence strategies and so forth. And the dissent between Scrimgeour and Dumbledore was only to be expected. Anyone in the position of Minister of Magic would be wary of someone as powerful and respected and irreplaceable as Dumbledore, who could claim the title for himself in an instant but is only refrained from doing so by his own conscience. So there was nothing startling about this particular piece of news. All in all, Harry had to admit he quite enjoyed the fact that Fudge has finally been sacked.

What was also to be expected was the daunting amount of text that referred to Harry Potter as the Chosen One and looked to him for salvation:

"_Many believe that the prophecy names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…"_ _"The single beacon of hope in these dark times…" "The Chosen One shall light our path to victory…a wizard that someday may even equal the power of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…"_

Such lines appeared so often in the Daily Prophet ever since the fight at the Ministry that Harry did not even utter a groan of frustration as he skimmed through them with half-hearted attention. Apparently people can put two and two together: Voldemort's attack on the Hall of Prophecy and the involvement of The-Boy-Who-Lived led to wild public speculation that struck only too close to the truth.

Of course, just like everything else, there were oppositions to the entire "Chosen One" theory. But those he did not even make an effort to read, why put himself in a worse mood than the one he already is in? Many of the differing voices were outright contemptuous, if not insulting, and Harry was already having a hard time trying to decide which of the two sides he disliked the most.

Harry sighed and tried to drive the unpleasant thoughts out of his mind, forcing himself to read the small printing word for word without thinking too much about the contents.

There was nothing particularly eventful. The rest of the newspaper consisted of a jumble of new security guidelines, safety protocols, a copy of Scrimgeour's long acceptance speech, interviews of various high-ranking ministry officials and patriarchs of a few prominent pureblood families, Quidditch tournament updates, and Galleon exchange rates. To Harry's grim satisfaction, Dolores Umbridge has been suspended from office and is currently under Ministry investigation for the prohibited use of Dark Magic and possession of illegal trade items. Fortunately there were no reports of Death Eater attacks; things have actually been relatively peaceful for quite a while. The last known assault staged by Voldemort traced more than two weeks back to the beginning of summer break when Amelia Bones was found murdered in her own home. Rumour has it that Voldemort himself had been the executioner; the Dark Mark above the scene had burned cruel and bright that night, its malevolent green harbinger visible for miles across.

Had it been last year, he would have been overjoyed at the prospect that people are finally realizing Voldemort has returned and war is now inevitable. The amount of attention that the Ministry of Magic is giving the matter should have relieved him, or at least the temporary lull free of Death Eater activities should have given him some small amount of comfort. But as Harry sat there scanning his eyes across the pages listlessly, he found that he could not bring himself to muster anything more than a half-hearted interest at the entire situation. The horrible memory of death and the sense of loss in his heart were much more tangible than the distant events listed on the paper. He simply didn't care…

The ill-fated words of the prophecy suddenly sprang unbidden to the forefront of his mind as if in challenge to his apathetic attitude.

_And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…_

Another loud burst of creaking feathers thankfully interrupted his train of thought before it could darken further. Harry turned towards the window; it was already getting lighter outside, if he craned his head to the right then he could see the morning sun floating above the rooftops of houses down the street, spilling its bright orange light across the surrounding white clouds like the yolk of a badly cracked egg. Hedwig had returned from her nightly hunt, followed closely by another owl with a letter tied around its leg.

Harry recognized the Hogwarts crest on the letter at once. It was addressed from the Ministry of Education. Guessing what it must contain, he felt his heart skip a beat while he quickly unfolded the parchment.

_Ordinary Wizarding Level results:_

_Astronomy A_

_Care of Magical Creatures E_

_Charms E_

_Defense Against the Dark Arts O_

_Divination P_

_Herbology E_

_History of Magic D_

_Potions O_

_Transfiguration O_

Harry first blinked in surprise, and then let out a small exclamation of happiness as he carefully read the results over again several times, much of his former gloominess forgotten. Seven OWLs! He'd passed everything he needed to become an Auror, with high marks too. Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts were excellent. He was especially proud of his Potions mark; it was amazing how well he could perform on the subject if Snape wasn't there to breathe down his neck. Even the prospect of enduring another two years with the unpleasant professor could not dampen his sense of triumph.

Grinning, he showed his marks to Hedwig, who nipped the parchment before returning to her cage. Suddenly the ominous words of the prophecy did not seem like such an impossible task. If he was to become an Auror…Well, wasn't defeating Voldemort the ultimate goal of any Auror? After all, it was what they are trained and paid to do; the main part of their job responsibility was to rid the world of any dangerous Dark wizards. And he would just be one amongst them…

Somehow that idea made Harry's burden feel a little lighter and more feasible than before.

* * *

(1)(2) These two sections are quoted directly from chapter 3 of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling


End file.
